


A Touch Too Much

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: ...written by a vegetarian, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Comeplay, Domestic Fluff, Established Harry Hart | Galahad/Gary "Eggsy" Unwin, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Gags, Gentle Dom Harry, Gloves, Harry Hart's infamous shoulder holsters, Intercrural Sex, Leather, Leather Kink, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Restraints, Rimming, Romance, Sensory Deprivation, Silk - Freeform, Smut, Some Humor, and Eggsy's really got his heart set on a pub lunch, dirty weekends in the countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: A few times Eggsy Unwin doesn't have a fetish, alright? And one time he can't say a word.“We should get new ones,” Harry muses, turning the cuffs in his hands to examine them, running his fingertip over the rough edge that’s rubbed a raw line on Eggsy’s wrist whilst Eggsy lies panting, sweaty, covered in spunk and not having moved any more than was absolutely necessary for Harry to unbuckle the restraints.The things is, Eggsy doesn’t mind that so much.“Can we … not?”





	A Touch Too Much

**Author's Note:**

> Where was I going with this title? ACDC? Goldfinger reference? Take your pick.
> 
> Dedicated with thanks to Renai-Chan for the chats, and to all the usual suspects for pepping me up and shaking the pompoms because writing is H-A-R-D right now for whatever reason. It's fun though and I love you all.

A Touch Too Much

 

Like many peculiarities, it’s not something Eggsy has the occasion to notice until he does. Nothing’s ever happened to make him realise the way he feels is not a default universal stance, like the way everyone seems to wax lyrical about the smell of plants in the rain, until he’s standing in the antiquated Kingsman lounge for an informal chat they’re assured won’t take more than five minutes because yes, Merlin does know it’s stifling out. 

They still end up waiting for him for at least ten - and he has the bollocks to bang on about Harry’s timekeeping.  Roxy declines the seat she’s offered on the grounds that she’s wearing a sundress and can’t abide the sensation of leather getting stuck on warm skin and then having to peel yourself off, to which everyone choruses sympathetic agreement.

“I kind of like that feeling,” Eggsy ventures. And then there is silence. “No? Nobody else?”

He thinks for a moment he’s accidentally been rude, wonders if perhaps alluding to a lady’s bare legs is ungentlemanly even when she did bring it up herself _and_  said lady got you in a lock on the mats in training yesterday and deliberately farted on your neck.

But nope. No admonishment, just everyone staring at him quizzically for a few seconds before going back to their conversation like he hadn’t spoken, and Harry laughing softly to himself in the corner.

***

“We should get new ones,” Harry muses, turning the cuffs in his hands to examine them, running his fingertip over the rough edge that’s rubbed a raw line on Eggsy’s wrist whilst Eggsy lies panting, sweaty, covered in spunk and not having moved any more than was absolutely necessary for Harry to unbuckle the restraints.

The things is, Eggsy doesn’t mind that so much.

“Can we … not?”

Harry gives him a look Eggsy is too fucked at that moment out to really process, flattening the cuffs and looping the chain that connects them around so it will all keep neatly in the drawer.

“You like these ones?”

He does. Not that there's any real sentimental value... they’re their first set, yeah, which is why they’d just gone for the cheapish basic black leather - no point investing too much on a whim when there was no guarantee they’d get used - but they’ve seen a fair bit of wear and their rudimentary manufacture has started to show itself in their inflexibility, the material hard and unforgiving and that’s kind of what Eggsy likes about it. Despite its tactile softness, the leather is so strong he knows if he fights it he’ll find a fault in the metal of the chains or the clips sooner than he’ll strain the fabric to breaking, or break the headboard, yet it’s soft enough not to hurt him. Amazing really.

The scuffs they’ve left this time are sore though, warm and raw, and Harry eyes them thoughtfully.

“How would you feel about better-made facsimiles?” He strokes one long finger over Eggsy’s wrist, just below the mark left by the cuff. “Just the same, but lined with the softest suede, and made just to fit you?”

Eggsy imagines that brushing against his skin - pressed into it, holding and squeezing; strong enough to stand up to the joint assault of him and Harry pulling at it, to bruise and mark but soft like the hottest kisses -  and his answer is a slow smile.

***

Harry’s one of those stunners that manages to look great in whatever he wears.  Harry in full black tactical kit, however, is a kick in the nads Eggsy is entirely unprepared for. It’s not classically handsome, like the suits, nor disarmingly soft like his concessions to casual wear.  It’s just…  _ sexy. _ Dark and mysterious and tempting. Dangerous looking. The boots, in particular, are doing something very unusual to Eggsy’s stomach as Merlin fastens the last few gadgets on Harry’s kit and gets him ready for the helicopter.

“Are you ready to go,?"

“Just,” says Harry, pulling on matching black gloves of minutely fine leather expertly made to flex with his every movement, nothing but a second skin to protect and disguise him.   “Am I behind time?”

“Not at all, for once.” Merlin glances back over his shoulder with wry wrinkle of a grin. “I just don’t think Eggsy can cope with you looking like the Milk Tray Man, and we need him this afternoon.”

Busted, although-

Harry scoffs. “Eggsy isn’t old enough to remember the Milk Tray Man.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t mean the teasing isn’t right on the money, and when Harry makes it home safely Eggsy makes sure he doesn’t have time to get changed before he drags him to privacy, so the gloves are still in his pocket.

***

It’s the smell that draws Eggsy  in, more than anything. He knows by now all the scents of the tailors and they’re individually mostly pleasant: the unique fabrics, dyes and detergents, chalk, soap, glue, mothballs, a touch of smoke here and there; the blended aroma of all of these is supremely comforting to him now, but one stands out in particular, and that’s what makes him wander into the workshop.

Fresh leather. Dagonet and his assistant, who must have some sort of code name but Eggsy only knows as Tim, are working on shoes from a roll of lush brown leather.

Eggsy notes rolls of black, maroon and dark green in what looks like the same fabric in the background. That’s a bit saucy for Kingsman, ain’t it? Eggsy wants green shoes.  He also wants to touch that buttery soft, glossy material laid out across the bench, maybe rub his face against it, stroke the-

“Hands off!” snaps Dagonet, and only when Eggsy has snatched his hand away as though the fabric might be coated in, say, a horrifically potent neurotoxin, adds “-please.”

“I wasn’t gonna-“ He was though. “I was only gonna- ”

Dagonet at least looks sympathetic.

“I know. And it is just as lovely as it looks, but also very delicate. The trace oils from your hands would alter the patina irreparably, and these are for public sale.” That both explains the seasonal colours and the probable lack of nerve agents.

“You sayin’ I’m greasy?”

“No more than anybody else.” Dagonet holds up his own gloves, and nods to the chair in the corner, which Eggsy takes to mean he is allowed to sit and watch and have a good old sniff of that oh-so specific smell, watch the tailor’s expert hands skim over the sheen of the surface in soft silence that makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up.

Eventually, Dagonet hands Eggsy an offcut.

“Here. You can play with this to your heart’s content.”

And it’s just as gorgeous as he imagined, strangely stiff for now but he knows how it will soften up with body heat; dry until that oil from his hands works into it and makes it unique, a tiny work of wonder in its own right, as individual as a snowflake.  Immediately he wants to show this to Harry, to get him to feel the surface that’s so smooth on one side and slightly grainy, slightly vulnerable on the underneath, like a tease or a secret. Harry likes fine things, he’ll understand.

Harry understands, alright.

“My dear boy.” He takes the scrap of fabric Eggsy is alternately rubbing against his own jaw and Harry’s face, having thoroughly enthused about how pleasing it is, how amazing it had been walking into the workshop and being surrounded by that smell, how fascinated he is by the entire process of working with its pliable strength and surprising delicacy.  “I think you have a fetish.”

“Nah, I don’t!” He doesn’t.  “I googled it in case I did. But I ain’t about all the clothes and shit. No offence, you’d look ridiculous.”

“I’d have been offended if you suggested I wouldn’t.”

That said, it’s not that Harry in odds and ends of leather here and there has done anything to lessen his enthusiasm: those gloves looked incredible on him, his fucking harnessed holsters the subject of many a daydream although it may only be now that Eggsy makes the connection.

“But I love the smell of it, and the feel,” he clarifies, holding his scrap out to Harry who runs his fingers over it whilst it lies in Eggsy's palm, the sensation transferring right through to make his skin thrum. “Like it feels like it should be wet when it isn’t, like your hand should come away oily but it don’t, and it’s all sticky but smooth…”

Harry takes the offcut of leather from him and twines it about his fingers, deep in thought.

“And you want that not-sticky smoothness…” Harry’s fingertips touch the leather to the side of Eggsy’s neck and drag it a centimetre or two that’s enough to make goosebumps break out all over him.  _ Fuck. “... _ all over your body. “

“Yeah.” His voice comes out feeble, thin. He maybe hadn’t realised that, in so many words, but it’s true and Harry makes it this soft, easy thing to accept.

“You like the way it feels. It turns you on.”

If he was going to protest that it’s not like that, the will to do so has evaporated,  drained away like his blood leaving his brain to heat his face, flood to where Harry is touching him and lower, leaving very little power for what’s left of his voice.

“...yeah.”

Harry just smiles at him, broad and toothy and making his eyes wrinkle, like Eggsy’s just handed him a treasured gift - something homemade but lovely. He tucks kisses against Eggsy’s ear, soft and sweet like he doesn’t know he’s tugging at the thread of something with the potential to turn Eggsy to jelly in seconds, apparently, even though he’s pressed close enough to feel how quickly Eggsy is getting hard for Harry’s low teasing his promises, the touch of that scrap of coveted fabric on the bare skin of his neck.

“Is this something you might be interested in exploring with me? Letting me play with?”

Eggsy is sure this conversation started out in an entirely different direction, but his head’s still muffled with the comforting quiet of the well-furnished workshop, the scent of it carried here on his little piece of leather Harry’s got folded around his fingertips and is teasing up under Eggsy’s jaw with, his senses so full that he’s seeing stars before Harry’s even really touched him and all he says is “...yeah.”

***

They like to get away when they have a solid few days off. Eggsy’s mum had elbowed him when he asked her to sit JB because they’d got a cottage in the Lake District, making a pointed comment about  _ not having to get out of bed, eh? _  and he’d pointed out that they actually wanted to go on some hikes and he’d like to do more than a mile in the direction of a pub lunch without having to pick that wheezy little prick up and carry him. But honestly, she’d better be at least half right because they’ve not had a lot of time to themselves in the last couple of months and Harry’s looking fine as all fuck in what Eggsy recognises as one of his  _ seeing people, but not working _ collection of suits so it’s an achievement that they make it as far as the cottage without Eggsy trying to suck him off in the car.

Reminding Harry that the Audi has tinted windows and pointing out every vaguely feasible lay-by does  _ not _ count as ‘trying’.

Unsurprisingly, Kingsman's attitude to annual leave is pretty haphazard, and apparently there's some sort of rota for being allowed the use of various properties at various times but it's never once actually worked out in their favour and as it happens Air BnB ends up being more useful most of the time, if you're looking for something specific, like the bloody mansion falsely advertised as  _ Willow Cottage _ that Harry drives them up to in the tipping rain just as it's getting dark. It's got a gravel driveway and everything.  Fuck only knows what he’s paid for it, although on the other hand Eggsy can’t imagine how much demand there is for a place like this midweek in January, so perhaps not as much as it looks like he should have.

They’re soaked through in the seconds it takes to work out which key is which and get in the front door but that’s alright, there’s a distinct sort of nineties romcom feel to it and Eggsy is a bit of a sucker for all that and too happy to have a few days of relaxation ahead of them to care.  Harry gives him the sort of slow, promising kiss that makes his core tingle and suggests Eggsy has a shower whilst he unpacks for them and Eggsy makes it a very long, very hot, very thorough shower from which he emerges feeling like a million quid, except you wouldn’t want to lick a million quid because money is grim - people’s hands are disgusting -  and he’s gone out of his way to make himself as lickable as possible. By the time he’s ready, he’s whistling. 

They ate a proper meal at lunchtime, which was his first clue - other than them having a dirty weekend in the first place - that this evening was likely to be a fuckfest: dinner and then bed is in fact not where it’s at. Harry’s right, you’ll get stitch. The pro’s game, he’s happily learned, is to carb up early and snack  _ after.  _ So he only bothers to put soft house joggers and a t-shirt on, no pants, __ and Harry, waiting in the corridor, offers him a tour of the house.

Well, that ain’t a bit suspicious.

It’s a toss up between two guesses. Either whatever agent isn’t on leave and came up to check the place out before they arrived -  as per the usual gentleman’s agreement - found something really cool, really odd or filthy stashed away, or there’s going to be a trail of rose petals and tea lights leading to some daft romantic set up. Not that Harry’s ever done that, but Eggsy could see it happening. The master bedroom is plush and gorgeous but free of ice buckets chilling champagne - for now; the kitchen he met briefly on his way through; the living room is modern and open plan with a big stone hearth … so far, so unremarkable as far as posh country retreats go.

And then Harry leads him to what he humbly refers to as a study, and as soon as he opens the door it’s very obvious why he saved that ‘til last. Eggsy feels a bit like that bit in Beauty and the Beast where he shows her the library, before he says she can have it, and suddenly he reckons he knows why Harry brought a bag downstairs with him.

Hopes he knows.

“Oh it’s  _ lovely _ in ‘ere! Well cosy.”  

The study is the epitome of Country Club luxury in the way that, to him at least, makes it impossible to tell if it’s been untouched since the nineteen hundreds or someone spent a good few grand making it look like this last year. The walls are lined with full bookcases - first editions or just there to look nice? Again, from there he can’t tell - and the furniture is all dark reds and greens, varnished teak, so deep it seems to soak up the light as well as muffling the sound. The carpet’s plush under his bare feet… so it’s probably a renovation, he thinks, not that it makes any difference. He reels off the proper names for all the fancy furniture because he knows all this now: wingback chair which is obviously the reading chair even though it looks more grand than comfortable; it's an ottoman not a foot stool because it's a great big thing with storage space under its upholstered top, and a Chesterfield settee.  Something among the artfully not-quite-matching set is new because the smell of old  _ and _ new leather combined is immediately recognisable to him, heady and sweet.

Outside, darkness has fallen, and the soft lamplight glints off the pearls of rain beading down the window, still coming down fast. It brings Eggsy back to the moment, reminds him how to breathe.

“I’m glad you think so. I thought of you immediately when I saw it.”

Eggsy has questions about that particular revelation, probably, but forgets them at the first touch of Harry’s hands, shameless in their intent. Eggsy goes pliant, sinking fast into the comfort he always finds in Harry having made plans for them; into the soft cocoon of the room as Harry lifts his t shirt off him, pushes his joggers down for him to step out of and hums a little approving noise when he notices the lack of boxers or anything else to delay the process.

It’s dizzying, how intense that is in silence: Harry’s appreciative eyes and hands all over him, the closeness of the atmosphere like a touch in itself on Eggsy’s naked body. Harry would have known how he’d feel about standing there, bared, in this room, with its moneyed opulence, with Harry still dressed except for his shoes: like a piece of meat, except the way Harry looks at him makes him feel like filet mignon at the very least, like this is how he belongs here, and that is  _ all  _ good.

There’s a very slight chill to the air, the residual cool of a room not lived in when the weather outside is fighting against its outside walls, but it’s barely enough to make his skin prickle up, let alone to deter him from getting hard under Harry’s admiring gaze, waiting patiently for whatever comes next.

“Gorgeous,” mumbles Harry against his neck, and Eggsy lets him kiss warm and open against the skin there, wraps his senses around the tingle that sets off somewhere in his chest and heads down to his cock more intently with every touch of Harry’s lips, every scrape of tongue and teeth. Harry’s not worried about bruises, for once: they’ll be going nowhere except the pub and maybe the village Co-Op if they run out of milk; neither of them will care if the neck of Eggsy’s polo shirt doesn’t quite cover everything. “May I make some additions?”

“Anything.”

Alright, he doesn’t mean that quite as breathless and dramatic as it sounds, but he can only imagine Harry means more bitemarks to go with the mission bruises that are at the unattractive greenish yellow stage by now, or some accessory in that bag he’s got by his feet.

He’s right on the latter. Harry opens the bag and gets out the new cuffs he persuaded Eggsy on, and steps in front of the bag to fasten them around his wrists before Eggsy can peer to see what else is in there. He does it gently, with Eggsy’s hands held delicately in his fingertips like he’s doing up some priceless item of jewellery on royalty and Eggsy doesn’t doubt that’s a thing Harry has done, at some point. The new cuffs are just as rigid as the old ones - maybe they won’t be after a few wears - but they’re narrower, the lining whisper-soft on his skin. The trigger clip that would hold them together is attached to one but his hands are left free, for now.

Harry steps back, admiring and appraising Eggsy at once, all over, like he’s a piece of art he’s thinking about buying and that thought doesn’t hurt a bit. Eggsy shudders and Harry grins at him: he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Eggsy stands, naked, still and silent, almost at parade rest whilst Harry perched on the edge of the desk to remove his own jacket and then, taking all year about it, his tie. Eggsy is more or less salivating by this point.

“I’d like you to wear this for me.” For a moment, Eggsy doesn’t get what Harry’s referring to, thinks he’s just shrugging or adjusting for comfort until Harry tucks his thumbs under the straps of his holsters and starts to slide them down his arms and  _ oh, fuck yes _ . “...Without these, obviously,” he murmurs, correcting himself more than speaking to Eggsy,  and takes the twin revolvers out, checking the safety and setting them in the open drawer behind him with such casual, fluid grace that Eggsy’s stomach flips even though he’s seen him do it hundreds of times. It’s this room. It’s being bollock naked with Harry adorning him with bits as he fancies; Harry, who is still suited, was still armed until a moment ago, taking off that harness to put round Eggsy’s body straight from his own, helping his arms through and adjusting it to sit better across his shoulders.

It’s still  _ warm.  _ Eggsy reels with the feeling of the hot leather against his bare flesh, soaking in Harry’s body heat from it even whilst he’s not touching him. He feels more naked if anything, wearing strapping and cuffs; closes his eyes to truly feel it without getting distracted: the lines of warm, gentle pressure that will only be so gentle as long as he stays still, soft and giving with his breathing; the lack of anything covering the rest of him, just accessorised as Harry sees fit.

When he gets his shiver under control and manages to look Harry in the eyes, Harry looks shocked, and he knows it’s because he must look stoned. His throat’s so dry it hurts to swallow. H arry regains his own composure, after a moment’s slow, shared breathing in which he laces their fingers together and gives Eggsy’s a little squeeze that Eggsy returns straight away. Then he clips Eggsy’s cuffs together in front of him.

Even the sound of the metal clip closing makes a tickle run down Eggsy’s spine, so he knows he’s done for when Harry lays his leather gloves out on the desk behind him: Eggsy’s breath catches sharply and comes out as a shudderly little sigh he doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed of.

The next item produced from the bag is a blindfold, but not a flimsy silk one: it’s a thick eye mask, like the ones they give you for sleeping on planes but made from molded black leather backed with inch-deep padded suede in the same pale cream that lines the rest of the set. Eggsy’s not gonna lie: it looks a bit scary but he also really wants to touch it, not that he can because Harry’s cuffed his hands politely in front of his rock-hard cock…  which in itself makes him inclined to just play along and do whatever Harry wants, because whatever Harry wants has never been anything but amazing.

“I bought it when we got the new cuffs and things,” explains Harry as if it’s not immediately obvious from the colour scheme that they’re all designed to go together. Eggsy wonders if there's anything else. “Would you like to wear it? It’s not important that you can’t see, I just thought it might help you to focus.” Harry might be reading his apprehension or just making an educated guess at the way people with lives like theirs feel about that sort of vulnerability, but even as Eggsy thinks that he realises he’s in a room with just Harry, and there’s nowhere he’d feel safer. It’s not even a question. And as he says, the blindfold isn’t to freak him out: he knows how if you take one sense away, the others step up to fill in the gaps, and the idea that he could  _ feel _ any more than he already does is absurd so he’s got to find out. 

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll try.”

“Good boy, and you just say if you’re not having the absolute best time you can be.” Harry steps up to him, the smooth cotton of his chest against Eggsy’s nipples, as good as a hug as Harry raises his hands to set the mask over Eggsy’s eyes. “No special words, just tell me how you’re feeling.”

The suede is just as soft as he’d imagined, gently pressing against his eyelids as Harry passes the straps around his head and does them up. He’s so careful not to snag Eggsy's hair in the buckle, bless him, and the darkness is warm, absolute. This thing would be magical if you had a hangover. As it is it feels soothing and luxurious, exciting as a new sensation in its own right, leave alone what the promise of not knowing what Harry might be doing, where he might be about to touch him, is doing to Eggsy. He has to surpress the urge to shudder.

“Pretty bloody good so far.”

“Excellent.”

One of Harry’s hands remains on Eggsy’s forearm as an anchor point, hot enough to be getting sticky, as he moves around, and then makes sure Eggsy can feel his knee - he’s pretty sure that’s Harry’s clothed knee pressing against the outside of his bare thigh - even when he steps back. Eggsy stops noticing the soft, velvety blackness that remains constant with or without his eyes open. His senses are recallibrating already, which is quite reassuring, picking up the creaks and huffs of Harry pulling his gloves on and then there’s a second’s pause which lasts forever, in which Eggsy’s cock twitches. 

Gloved fingers touch the small of Eggsy’s back, first, steadying them both whilst Harry steps up close to him again… he thinks, from the shift of air and the brush of fabric, but he can’t really tell. And then they’re ghosting softly up and back down, disappearing and reappearing on his shoulders to smooth down his arms.

In the darkness, Eggsy thinks he’s got a handle on where Harry is moving to, what directions he’s going in, but he’s wrong every time. When he expects the supple, worn fingertips of the gloves pinching into his arse they’re on his neck and work up to play with his hair, dragging dry and gently tugging at it, then they’re at his lips, and just as he opens up to touch Harry’s fingers with his tongue the other hand turns up stroking the insides of his thighs, trailing up to where arousal is spreading out at the base of his body, so deep and heavy it’s almost painful. Flat palms brush over his chest, his back, everywhere, it’s like there’s more than two hands on him and though he knows there aren’t, in the darkness behind his mask his mind can go anywhere it pleases.  His skin thrums  with excitement, like the most pleasant itch, maddening and making him want to squirm into Harry’s arms, if he could find them, but he stays where he was put with his mouth open, just in case. The ghost of air across the tip of Eggsy's cock is cooler than he expects: he’s leaking precome, and it’s weird to him that he probably wouldn’t have felt that otherwise. Does he ever? 

Something different touches Eggsy at waist level. Slippery, colder than ambient, softer than the leather of the gloves. Silk. 

“Now, I thought...” comes Harry's voice from just above his ear and Harry trails the silk - a  handkerchief, probably, Eggsy is so keyed up he can pick out the individual sensation if the stitching at the edge -  up from his ribs to his neck and hesitates there for a moment before bringing it to Eggsy’s mouth. “This is not to shut you up. You’re free to make as much noise as you want, but I thought you might-"

Eggsy nods eagerly and just opens his mouth further instead of answering. He’s already half wrecked and he loves harry so fiercely for understanding that he gets self conscious about the noise he makes, the things he says, and as much as they both might enjoy that for their own reasons at other times, if Harry’s trying to get him focused on what he’s feeling it will only put him off. The silk being tucked into his mouth is not exactly comfortable, strangely dry and pointy, but the fabric’s soft enough to breathe through even if he breathes through his mouth, which takes away any panic. 

“There’s a good boy. Lovely. And I want you to flash your hands at me if you need anything, yes?”  Eggsy gives Harry a thumbs up and then shows him the gesture to demonstrate that he’s understood: a squeeze of a fist then opening up to splayed fingers. He could speak around the makeshift gag, or at least mumble in a way that would obviously be agreement, but why distract himself from the soft rumble of Harry’s voice, the drum of rain against the window? “That’s it. Perfect. And this is not a challenge. That’s what you do if you want to stop, you want to speak, you want a breather, speed up, slow down, your nose itches, you’ve got cramp in your foot again…”

That was  _ once _ , his foot had seized up when Harry was fucking him from behind on all fours, and the memory is still enough to make them both crack up.  It wasn’t funny at the time. He’d been so close to coming his toes had curled, which had set off a spasm in his instep so agonising that all he’d been able to do was flail forwards, yelling the house down, just as poor harry had crossed the point of no return and ended up coming over the backs of Eggsy’s thighs,  then panicking, with no idea why he was squirming around kicking his feet and punching the mattress.

Alright, it was hilarious. A hot shower, a Powerade and a blowjob and he’d got over the pain, then they’d started laughing about it and not stopped until they’d fallen asleep.

Grinning around the silk, Eggsy gives the ‘okay’ signal and finds himself strangely soothed by not having to speak, not having his own voice interrupt the chocolatey softness Harry has created for him. It’s like he’s not even here, not having to do anything other than feel and let Harry do the rest. 

Harry guides him to kneel and for a moment he expects a cock to be pressed against his lips but considering Harry has just gagged him that wouldn’t make a lot of sense. He’d give it a go, though, suddenly feels almost a bit sad that he can't at least lick at Harry's fingers to show willing.

“I’m going to step away from you for a moment.”

Something happens to Eggsy then: a strange bloom in his head and his heart at once because that’s so Harry, creating this little slice of paradise for him and going so far as to preempt the anxiety it might cause not to be able to feel where he is, and Eggsys glad he’s kneeling because otherwise he might just crumble down at Harry’s feet. 

Holy fuck - is that what swooning feels like? Is that what that is? 

Fortunately he doesn’t have time to think about it because there’s a bit of shuffling, a change in the airflow of the room in which Eggsy reads movement, and then a series of soft thuds which he gathers is something big being set down on the floor right in front of him. Not the chair, so he’s not going to be kneeling between Harry’s feet... just now, although there's nothing to stop him suggesting it himself later.  The ottoman? which means Harry lifted it up rather than dragging it and Alright, it probably isn’t  _ that _ heavy but... Jesus.

The smell envelops Eggsy then: polish first, then leather, then something woody like warm sawdust. His head feels the same: dry and muffled, a tinderbox of arousal and fantasy waiting to go up in smoke.

And there are the first flames, catching under his skin at Harry’s hands rubbing more firmly over his chest, his sides, down the outsides of  his legs. Starting again at the neck and stroking down his back to grip at his arse and he’s still coming up in fresh goosebumps even though the touches have taken all the chill out of his skin; it’s buzzing like he wants to start shivering by the time Harry applies gentle pressure between his shoulder blades to bend him forward. Forward and forward, a bit lower than he’d be on hands and knees and then Eggsy’s thrust-out chest makes contact with the top of the stool, with the thick, creaky leather it’s padded with. 

It’s solid but soft, heavy enough not to move significantly with his weight braced against it: Eggsy’s arms are trapped under his body, which isn’t exactly comfortable but it puts his hands right by his cock, which might be useful if he gets impatient. He’s aching already. 

Harry keeps rubbing and stroking at Eggsy’s back and sides, his front getting equally happy treatment from the cushioning below him, and if he’s not mistaken this is where the new-leather smell was coming from: it’s barely been touched and here he is rubbing all over it. Good job he’s just showered, really. The feel of being pressed into it reminds him of when they’d got massages on that cruise, except apparently his nipples are connoisseurs for the difference between polyvinyl and real leather and even still at the time he’d been trying desperately not to get a boner at the luxurious touching all over his skin. Now he can happily wriggle around and enjoy the fact he’s rock hard and relaxing quickly, his body warming up in Harry’s hands like plasticine. Eggsy moans softly and finds the sound doesn’t go anywhere, is mostly in his head.

A gloved hand grips each arse cheek and squeezes to spread them, which in itself feels delicious, and then Harry kisses a determined line down from the small of Eggsy’s back until Eggsy can feel the heat of breath against his hole.

The flinch is pure reflex: it’s not like he doesn’t want it, god, his entire lower body has been screaming out for touch all the while the rest of him was being lavished with it, with Harry stroking everywhere except the very places logic and want dictate he should have gone straight for. 

The first lick is heaven. Just pure, soothing bliss on Eggsy’s raw nerves, a reassurance that Harry isn’t planning to tease him quite to the point of torture. The bolt of pleasure hits Eggsy so fast he wonders for a second if he might come instantly, which would be embarrassing except he needs it so badly already that he’s not sure he’d even mind. Harry wouldn’t have to stop if he wasn’t ready to. 

Eggsy keeps his weight forwards, making himself moveable and easy to give Harry the access he needs to lap quick, tiny little licks over him in a pattern Eggsy is so close to being able to pin down, now he’s so focused on it, except every time he thinks about it his mind swims and his back prickles.  He’s not self conscious to be splayed like that, knows he’s fresh from the shower and might -  _ might  _ \- have gone in for a couple of dots of the top shelf lube, the stupidly expensive vanilla cinnamon stuff, not enough to be slippery but hopefully a nice little surprise for Harry if he wanted a faceful, and when doesn’t he? 

Right on cue Harry groans and pushes his tongue inside, and the reflexive clench of Eggsy’s arse sends a nice shock rolling through his whole body. He thinks about whether it would be heaven or torture, to just be stuck here helpless to speed anything along whilst Harry licks him out; wonders how long he could stand it for, what would happen beyond that point where one of them normally  cracks and wanks him off. Would he come, eventually, with no other stimulation? Would he beg - cry, even? - for Harry to fuck him? Not yet. For now, this is beautiful.

Even with his eyes covered and his senses honed, he can’t tell exactly what Harry’s doing that feels so fucking good, and he wants to know because he wants to be able to do it like that, to make Harry make those amazing noises like he’s dying but really happy about it. Maybe he can give Eggsy a very thorough step by step tutorial: Eggsy will know he’s got the hang of it when Harry’s voice gives out, and by then he won’t need any more instruction, he’ll just keep going until Harry comes all over himself.

Well, that’s tomorrow sorted.

Eggsy doesn’t feel like he’ll need that much encouragement before he goes that way himself. With his eyes closed and covered and the rest of his senses coddled, Harry’s mouth on him feels more wonderful than ever: that’s his  _ tongue  _ stroking at Eggsy’s arse, making it feel so good and even the thought of it makes heat burn up his back so desperately that he’s twisted his arms and worked his cock into the awkward clutch of his bound hand before he’s even realised he’s doing it. 

Harry grunts a noise that’s definitely an admonishment, a refusal, would be ‘no’ if it wasn’t thoroughly buried in Eggsys arse and for a moment Eggsy thinks to defy him - it’s his problem for not realising where he’d positioned Eggsy’s hands - but it’s not worth it.  So then he’s back to just… feeling. Enjoying. He’s spared the dilemma of trying to work out how long is polite to allow Harry to carry on for before moving on to something that feels a bit less like Harry doing all the work for Eggsy’s pleasure, because he’s not in control of that, right? Harry wouldn’t let him help them both out. He’s being a good boy, just laying there tied up and letting Harry do whatever he wants. 

Without the option to touch himself, he can’t turn the pleasure into something manageable: it’s just the unbearable hot, wet bliss  _ ,  _ too much and never quite enough all at once.  Eventually the throbbing in his hands gets too much.  He tries to flash them at Harry but they’re hidden in his lap and it’s strangely satisfying that Harry’s into this enough not to have overthought that. It’s fine. In the hush, his mumble is very obvious.

“Mmhhs,” points out Eggsy, and bursts the bubble.

“What’s that?” At first it’s a smug tease, the pause of Harry sitting back on his heels for a second, doubtless gazing, absorbed, at the trail of saliva Eggsy can feel running down his bollocks. “Oh, your arms! Shit! Have you been signalling at me? Jesus, I could have-“

“Mm’rrght.” He is alright, truly, just not comfortable, but Harry pulling him up and rubbing all over him to get the circulation back where it should be is more than enough to make up for it.   Eggsy needs no help at all with his circulation, particularly not from Harry’s gloved hands working over his sticky chest and stomach again, wrapping around his cock for a few soft strokes as if by way of apology that is absolutely accepted. The palms of the gloves feel sleek on his skin…  _ god _ he wants to fuck that, this weird animal instinct bubbling up from somewhere that seems separate from his mind or his body, telling him to thrust even though that would get sore and no way is Harry gonna let him put lube on his favourite gloves. And Eggsy loves them too much to ruin them. So forces himself to still, with a little grunt through his nose.

"Oh, that's it, is it? Is this what you like?" Harry's hand makes another pass down and up the shaft of Eggsy's cock, the grip of the glove dragging at his skin and getting another little groan out of him even with his mouth stuffed. "I see.  Forwards, a little?” 

Eggsy lifts his weight up and shuffles on his knees, feels the redistribution of weight against his back and hears the slight scrape of the stool being moved, then the broad wooden legs are against his thighs and Eggsy raises his arms. When Harry lays him back down Eggsy is fully laying on it from hips to cheekbone; his bound hands dangling mid air off the end and his cock, sandwiched tight between his belly and the leather.   That’s much better, in so many ways, and it presses his body and face more fully down into the plushly upholstered surface of the ottoman…  _ plushly upholstered ottoman,  _ fucking hark at him, that’s too much time with Harry, right there.

Not that there’s such a thing as too much time with Harry. Definitely not too much with him soothing him into relaxation again, grabbing and massaging at him, little tacky pulls of the gloves all over his skin making him feel molten and helpless, just laid over a convenient item of furniture for Harry to do whatever he wants to. When he wriggles his hips to get comfy, Eggsy's cock slips just slightly in the little drizzle of excitement it’s leaving. It makes a shock go right up his back.

The gloves make one long, tingling pass down his spine and onto the backs of his thighs. 

“These have got to come off now, I’m afraid.”

Harry means the gloves, as evidenced by the missing touches in which Eggsy hears the quick whip of him removing presumably the left; the slightly slower tug on the right, although there is of course the possibility that he took them off by pinching the fingertip in his teeth, and if Eggsy missed that it’s the saddest he’s going to be about the blindfold. Then the patter of rain and smooth whispers of their touching is rudely interrupted by the stupid ketchup-bottle squeezy sound of the lube and Eggsy can  _ see  _ the face Harry will be making at that. Well, that’s his problem for bringing the travel bottle down. The big one was in the bag.

Eggsy relaxes into the first push of Harry’s finger into him, letting his mind get lost again, retune to the soft warmth of the room. He’s already loose enough from Harry's mouth for it not to feel at all uncomfortable; besides, he’s fully focused, body and mind hungry for this, and that finger slides right in to where he wants it most.

To think he dreaded this, once. That Eggsy was so unnerved by the prospect of being touched so intimately that he’d psyched himself out of the whole experience, tried to do it himself in advance so they could skip it, or tried to go without altogether which had been exactly as stupid as he’d been warned. But Harry had been patient, as ever, pushing Eggsy a little at a time to challenge his own hang ups, all the while drenching him with such love, such admiration that Eggsy had found embarrassment slipping away unnoticed, replaced by hunger for the way Harry could make him feel, the things his body could do when played so expertly, and then eventually pride, because fuck it: it was obvious Harry loved him, loved his body, loved to bury his face and his fingers in Eggsy’s arse just as keenly as getting his cock in there and when it felt like that, who the fuck was Eggsy to argue?

So he spreads his knees a little further and tips his hips back in lieu of being able to say anything like y _ eah, get your fingers in me right fucking now  _ which sounds a lot smoother, a lot sexier in his head than it would out loud. Harry gets the message anyway, goes back in with two and slowly slides them so the tips rest over Eggsy’s prostate, chuckling at the shiver that tells him he’s found his mark.  _ Smug git, _ but Eggsy knows the feeling: that power that comes with realising you’re giving someone such pleasure with something as easy as the tap of a finger. Harry’s still fucking  _ dressed  _ and Eggsy's grateful of his posh silk gag if only to mop up the drool because god, does that feel nice.

Harry fingers Eggsy in stroking slow circles, pressing gently and rhythmically, building up the sensation by layers with each reapplication of lube, each unnecessarily careful penetration just making Eggsy want more. He might be whimpering if it weren’t for the silk stuffing his mouth, but as it is barely a sound comes out. It’s enough for Harry to read what’s good and keep at it. 

Pleasure sparkles up Eggsy’s spine, in showers through his belly and his balls with every skillful strike against that sweet spot.  His skin’s on fire, his mind floating, soul soaring at the wordless noises of encouragement Harry makes for him as Eggsy’s body ripples and flexes with the stroking of his fingers, opening up and drawing him deep. Eggsy’s usually babbling by this point, mindlessly aroused and sometimes embarrassed about it, begging for more because what he’s already experiencing is too much, but like this he gets to hear what it does to Harry to take Eggsy apart: the huffs of effort and surprised, proud chuckles when he responds well; the barely audible groans at the tightness and heat clutching desperately at Harry’s fingers. 

Harry holds Eggsy’s hips, puts the thickened head of his cock against him with his hand and enters him in one seamless, steady push. Eggsy breathes with it: a long, measured sigh through his nose that’s as much satisfaction as to help him adjust. For a mad second there seems to be more to take than usual and then the cool metal of Harry’s open fly is pressing against Eggsy’s arse. 

“Now, you’re not going to be able to move very much without hurting yourself, I’m afraid,” Harry says it offhand, like it’s just occurred to him, which Eggsy is reasonably sure means he’s planned it all in minute detail and that’s just fine because the idea of Harry looking at the pictures on the property listing, vividly imagining reaming Eggsy over specific items of furniture is a definite turn on. “But I can keep you here all night, if that’s what it takes.”

Eggsy nods, over the top so it will be visible and Harry can have no doubt as to his willingness. The surface of the footstool is tacky against the underside of his prick; there’s enough give in his skin to allow him to shift with Harry’s thrusts comfortably, but no more. He knows rubbing would be agony however tempting it is, knows the truth in Harry’s words that if he doesn’t hold himself tense and still in the right position for Harry to fuck him, he’ll chafe to blistering, so he’ll hold still alright.

All that restraint from one pair of cuffs. Eggsy shifts a final time - flexing against the harness and the binding of his wrists -  to ensure he’s good and comfortable, and then Harry starts to move. 

The first few thrusts are long and slow, opening him up fully for the length of Harry’s cock right down to where his balls come to nudge against Eggsy’s body, but without the force to slap for now. The spot Harry’s fingers toyed with so deftly lights up at the brush of his cockhead, flaring with bursts of pleasure as Harry rocks right against it. It’s close to unbearable, but having his eyes covered and his mouth stuffed full means Eggsy can concentrate enough to stand it whilst it just gets better, better,  _ more _ .  He knows what Harry wants to happen, knows that like this it likely will. It just takes time, and not to be distracted, and like this he can just lie still and wait for as long as it takes for Harry to get him there. He’s already closer than he’d usually be by now, because he’s not thinking about moving to give Harry something back - because he can’t, really; not thinking about what to say to turn Harry on or keep him doing one thing or other - because he can’t do that either, and instead is free to just feel.

And what he feels is the slow grind of Harry’s hips against his arse, teasing, almost torturous: he doesn’t want to give Eggsy too much too quickly and not be able to ramp it up for the crucial moment, but he doesn’t realise how close he is. With a flush of giddy heat, Eggsy realises a truth: he’ll come just like this if Harry keeps it up long enough, just this ridiculously slow, shallow rocking. It would take hours and he’d probably go mad in the process, but he feels so good he knows it'd happen. 

How long has Eggsy been getting his whole body spoiled in this room? 

Gradually, Harry begins to pick up the pace, and feeling that’s as much for Harry's own need as anything makes Eggsy’s whole body clench, makes him grunt into his hanky-gag.  Harry’s enjoying it - he’s as hard as he’s ever been, Eggsy can feel him throbbing, feel the shirt that keeps brushing the base of his back and thinks it’s wet - but he doesn’t have to worry about that right now. He’s secure enough in how much Harry gets off on seeing him loving it, seeing him just give it over and just enjoy himself: a job well done will do it for Harry, every time… but Eggsy can’t tell him, can’t even rock his hips back to take more, just has to focus on getting what he wants and hope his body looks as fucking good as it feels trussed up in Harry’s leather and squirming on the end of his dick.

Harry lets go of his wrists and instead grabs the back strap of the holster, pulling it tight under Eggsy’s arms and into his shoulders, pulling him further and pushing deeper. Eggsy strains against it to push his chest down harder into the soft upholstery, to give Harry the resistance to work against, and it doesn’t hurt but it’s hard enough to feel, hard enough to remind him of the power Harry’s reigning back to fuck him with such patience and maybe to give him marks he can carry all weekend. 

It’s too much. Eggsy’s burning up and dripping sweat now, slipping on the bench with it, the straps of Harry’s holsters rubbing him raw in a way that’s just enough to keep him grounded through the bright surges of sumptuous pleasure, so he doesn’t have to tap out. He’s real, this is real, it’s alright to be feeling this hot sweet tide of sensation rising up him and not be able to do anything to stop it: Harry’s got him. 

Under the bottom edge of the blindfold, Eggsy’s cheeks feel wet and whether that’s sweat or tears he isn’t sure, doesn’t care because he’s hidden, free to cry and scream and do whatever he needs to do to bear the tingles prickling out through his core and down his limbs, the flashes of wonderful heat where his nipples are stuck against the leather, not rubbing but tugging where the friction won’t quite let go of his skin. His cock finds the groove between two cushions, sticky and smooth and lovely: it’s too hard, too dry, _keep still keep still don’t rub against it,_ but enough.  Eggsy feels himself first past the point at which orgasm is no longer an ‘if’ but a ‘when’, a promise and a threat all at once, an inevitable end to the unbearable build up of want in every nerve, as long as Harry doesn't fucking stop. The gag helps because Eggsy can acknowledge the stream of filth going through his mind - _fuck me, fuck me, more, Harry don’t stop, harder, fuck me, fuck_  - without killing his mood with the desperation in his own voice.

Then he feels, in minute detail, as he tips over the point at which the ‘when’ becomes  _ now,  _ the fuse of orgasm lit and burning hot and bright, drawing closer fast. Harry must read it in his body or the noises Eggsy’s managing to make round the gag, and keeps his movements blissfully consistent, rhythm deadly accurate.

“That’s it, you gorgeous thing. There? Like that?”

Eggsy nods quickly, whines helplessly, too afraid that anything requiring more thought than that might put him off. But it doesn’t. Harry’s thrusts keep hitting him just right, the tension mounting and stretching around an ecstacy Eggsy didn’t know was possible.

“Are you going to come?”

Another nod, half aborted; Eggsy gritting his teeth against the silk and screaming into it because he can, the noise just gets stuck in his mouth, lost in the fabric as the feeling at the base of his spine goes nuclear and swallows him up. For a few beautiful, reality-melting seconds the first pulses of come smooth the friction between cock and leather and lets Eggsy frantically fuck the groove in the cushioning through the aftershocks: it makes them so intense it’s like coming all over again before the first one's even finished, pleasure roaring through him like a freight train, Harry’s cock still filling him and hard for him to clench around whilst every nerve in his body works through desperate, pounding orgasm. 

Eggsy comes back down to reality to hear Harry quietly repeating the word  _ fuck _ , falling out of rhythm as he eases himself to slip from him. Eggsy isn’t sure if he expected Harry to hold him down and keep fucking him until he was spent too or, more like him, cuddle him until they’d got their breath back and then oh-so-politely wank over Eggsy’s flushed and awestruck face, but instead he grabs a bruising hold on Eggsy’s arse cheeks and squeezes them tight around his prick, rutting immediately and desperately into the lube-slicked trench between. Thank fuck he pulled out, really, because as much as Eggsy wants to feel him come he’s not sure he could have taken that, and this way he can still feel and listen to him whilst he makes the most of the last sparkles of bliss. 

Harry's close. Eggsy can tell by the loud, ragged rasp of his breathing, like he’s in shock, the noise you make when you’re dunked up to the neck in ice cold water, and Eggsy knows if he could see him now Harry’s eyes would be black, fixed on what he wants, on the glide of his flushed and shining cock along the pale furrow of Eggsy's arse, at the flutter of his well-fucked hole.  A couple of times, Harry sounds like he’s trying to speak; the ridge of his cockhead catches, then presses; Eggsy fights to relax enough when he realises with a shudder of late arousal that he wants to push back inside for the final seconds.  _Fuck yes, get it Harry._ He makes it barely any further than the head before Eggsy feels him coming, hot wet pulses that are somehow soothing, Eggsy’s that oversensitive, and then there’s just the pure physical, almost spiritual satisfaction of it, the completion of having Harry’s cock just about in him whilst it twitches and softens, whilst they both come down. 

In suspended, weightless silence, Eggsy's heartbeat pounds in his ears, his neck, his brain. He can feel Harry’s - just off beat with it, a little faster - against the middle of his back. His cock throbs with his pulse and every third beat or so twitches, still taking its time softening, then every fourth, fifth, slower. Eggsy’s whole body wracks with one last shudder of pleasure that makes him sigh through his nose. Harry’s fingers find his mouth, shove between his lips and pull the silk hanky out. 

It’s still raining out: Eggsy isn’t sure when he tuned out the sound but it’s pouring down the window, which is pleasingly steamed up and if he could move he’d want to go and draw on it with his finger so the next time the owners will be subjected to “Eggsy and Harry fucked here” or maybe just a passionate hand print, like in Titanic.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks into the back of his hair. He was waiting for that. Harry always checks on him when things get a bit intense, when Eggsy hasn’t been able to communicate or when he’s done more or less anything without asking him, so this is like, the perfect storm of Harry Hart post-shag self doubt, although Eggsy is pretty sure he can tell from the hammering of their shared pulse, the wet mess of lube and come and sweat - Jesus fuck is he sweaty - and the way Eggsy keeps nuzzling at him that they’re both equally, stupidly happy. 

“Mmm. Top three.”

It takes Harry a moment to work or what he’s talking about and stop kissing at the back of Eggsy’s ear.

“... really?”

“Definitely.” Sitting back on his heels, Harry helps Eggsy off the ottoman and unclips his cuffs from each other. Neither of them appear too bothered about actually taking them off. “Sorry if you're going for a personal best. Nothing ever tops when we got home from Istanbul...”

Harry chuckles, soft and husky, and then Eggsy feels a shift in pressure against his face and light floods in, dazzling and alien. 

He must look ridiculous, blinking like a Disney-drawn mole, but the room’s not too bright and it’s worth it to be able to finally see the state of Harry: sweat soaked through his shirt, trousers in a heap he’s still got one foot tangled in, boxers spattered with lube and… not just lube, a dribble of his own spunk where he’s not quit managed to keep it all in Eggsy. The puddle running off the studded edge of the ottoman’s padding is disgusting.

“Feel bad for the owners though. I’m sure it will clean off but I dunno how I’d feel if I rented out a place and someone went and jizzed on my furniture.”

There’s no excuse for how pleased with himself Harry looks at times, but Eggsy likes it because it almost always ends well for him.

“Actually, that’s ours. Found that leather in the fabric stores and had to get something done for you in it.”

“Serious?!” Eggsy finds he isn’t fully surprised: he could smell that it was new, had figured out that it didn’t quite fit with the rest of the room but if his brain had made that last connection it had hidden it from him. He throws his arms around it, mostly to make Harry laugh but in fairness it has just been instrumental in one of the most mind bending orgasms of his life. That’s a bonding experience, it totally needs a cuddle. Eggsy  _ totally _ isn’t high on amazing sex endorphins or whatever is is that makes you all sleepy and stupid when you come that hard.  “Well it’s gonna have to live in the bedroom because otherwise JB is gonna sleep on it and this is  _ mine now _ .” 

“Are you honestly preempting a territory  war with a pug over who has the right to hump what item of furniture?“

Rather than try to rephrase it, Eggsy bares his teeth and growls. It makes Harry laugh, so instead of getting up he crawls over to nuzzle at Harry’s lap, and the hair-petting he gets in response almost makes him fall asleep on the spot. He looks at Harry upside down from his thigh. “Bed?”

“We could.” Harry barely dislodges Eggsy to unfold his legs. His checked cotton boxers - that’s true mufti, in Harry’s book, if you’d believe it - are stubbornly stuck round his toes and he has to shake his foot to get fully free and naked at last, and they fling off under the ottoman.  “But there’s an open fire in the drawing room. I could get that going, open a bottle of wine, set out some blankets…?

Next time someone makes a joke about viagra or the potential for Harry to put his back out, this will be the example that springs to Eggsy’s mind of the reality that they basically inhabit a nicely lit and particularly well furnished porn. He’d say romance novel, but once he’s got his breath back and put his brain back together he wants to do something in recognition of how good Harry made him feel, and that something is going to be making sure what would otherwise be a romantic night in front of a log fire gets as fucking nasty as possible. 

Either way, it sounds like a bloody good idea.  “ _Yes,_ Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any comments, feedback, encouragement and yelling always gratefully received. Your keysmashes and hearts and thoughtful questions are what make it all worth it and if you want to see more from me the way to do it is to let me know your thoughts either here or on - 


End file.
